Bitterfruit Stairs

A city scene. A cracked asphalt staircase with no hand railing hugs the western portion of a paved urban hillside, a stretch of road that leads to a tree-lined street above. What is supporting the staircase, with brown and green weeds flourishing in its cracks and fissures, is uncertain because the object cannot be seen.

At the foot of the city hillside, paused in mid-stroll in a pedestrian intersection that is all hers to occupy, is a young girl with soft brown hair in pigtails. She wears a black-and-white plaid skirt and a simple white blouse. The hem of one sleeve is being lightly lifted by a breeze. Her small feet, almost child-like, are tucked into ankle-length socks and a pair of Buster Browns. Her face is turned from us as she contemplates the long, decaying sidewalk that traverses the hill.

The road at the top of the hill where the staircase ends — or begins, if one is descending the hill — is devoid of any life whatsoever. No cars. No pedestrians. Dark brown trees sprout pale yellow lemons the size of basketballs, the boughs of the branches bent and prepared to break. In this grove of brooding lemon trees sits the haunted remains of a child’s lemonade stand, complete with hand-lettered sign and a glass pitcher on the counter that has been sealed over with opaque cobwebs.

This is the picture that Melanie painted in her mind’s eye when the doctor told her that the lump in her breast was malignant.